Cradle Song
by dust on the wind
Summary: There's no easy way to deal with sad news from home, especially when home is half a world away. A Christmas story. If you weep easily, approach with caution.


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_I do not own any of the characters from the series Hogan's Heroes. _

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"Well, I never had any figgy pudding. But I don't like the sound of it."

"Nobody's asking you to eat it, Carter, just sing it," replied Colonel Hogan patiently.

"Anyway, what's wrong with a good figgy pudding?" added Newkirk.

Carter regarded him with mild scorn. "Well, for a start, it's got figs in it."

"You don't like figs?" said LeBeau. He appeared surprised, as well he might be; it was generally accepted around Stalag 13 that Carter was prepared to eat almost anything, if it wasn't actually moving.

"It's not that I don't like them. It's just they don't agree with me. You know how some things just go straight through? Well, it's like that. I get these stomach cramps, and then I just have to..."

Hogan didn't let him finish. "Okay, Carter, we get the picture. We'll skip the figgy pudding. Let's try something else."

A few minutes later, Sergeant Schultz, entering the barracks, was greeted by a _fortissimo_ chorus of _The First Nowell._ He stopped just inside the door, beaming.

"_Wunderbar_!" he chortled. "Oh, that was beautiful, Colonel Hogan. Is it for the Christmas concert tomorrow night?"

"That's the plan, Schultz. Glad you approve. Okay, men, I'd just like to run through _Silent Night_ again. And this time, can we try for a little more heavenly peace, and not so much Saturday night at the Hofbrau? "

The men weren't listening. Some of them had spotted what Schultz was trying to hide. "Hang about," Newkirk burst out. "Schultz has got our mail!"

It was too late for Schultz to make a run for it. He vanished under the onslaught of men desperate for tidings from home. Hogan had to go to the rescue.

"Colonel Hogan, they will be the death of me, one day," moaned Schultz, staggering to his feet, as the horde dispersed.

"Well, you should know what to expect by now, Schultz," said Hogan, gently removing the letters from the sergeant's grasp. "Now, let's see... Addison... Baker... Carter..."

There was no possibility of resuming their rehearsal for the next fifteen minutes; every man had received at least one letter.

"Hey, they got three feet of snow at home," said Carter. "Boy, wouldn't that be swell?"

"I think we'll pass on that, Andrew." Kinch glanced up from his own correspondence. There was a gleam of contentment in his eye; obviously the news was good.

Even Hogan was fully engaged. His mother wrote frequently, his father less often, but the father-son bond was no less strong for that. _Dad never misses the important dates_, thought Hogan, smiling over the concisely worded paragraphs, so characteristic of the old man.

After he'd read it twice through, he folded the letter and put it into his pocket. "Okay, back to work, guys," he said.

"I haven't finished," pleaded LeBeau. "I still haven't read Marguerite's letter."

"Well, if you didn't spend so long over Yvette, you'd have had time for the rest of 'em," observed Newkirk. "You spread yourself too thin, that's your problem. Now, as your closest pal, I think it's my clear duty to help you out. You stick to Yvette, and I'll deal with..."

"She wouldn't even look at you, Newkirk. She's crazy about me."

"She'd have to be, mate."

"That's enough, men," Hogan interrupted. "Remember, it's Christmas. Peace on earth, goodwill to all men. Apart from the Krauts, that is. So be nice."

He glanced around the barracks. "Who's missing? Wasn't Baker just here?"

"He just went out a minute ago," said Carter. "Didn't say anything, just left."

"Do you want me to go get him back, Colonel?" asked Kinch.

Hogan considered. "No," he said at last. "Let's have another carol. Any requests?"

Of course there was a scheme attached to the carol singing. They'd run out of explosives again; they needed to borrow some from the storage depot, where a supply was being kept for a construction project. In order for the prisoners to get their hands on it, the Kommandant and the guards had to be distracted. And, as Hogan had pointed out when he was explaining the plan, nobody would ever suspect a Christmas carol recital was a cover for illicit activity. So the Germans would get a little Christmas cheer, the prisoners would get a little dynamite, and after New Year, the Berlin Express would get a little blown up. Everyone got something out of it.

Half an hour later, Hogan pronounced himself satisfied, and dismissed his carollers. Most of them immediately returned to their mail. LeBeau began reading out extracts from Marguerite's letter, to an audience consisting of an irritated, envious Newkirk and a fascinated but slightly bemused Carter.

Kinch headed outside. Baker's absence was starting to worry him. But there weren't so many places in camp where a prisoner could go if he didn't want to be found; no places at all, really. A brief search found Baker outside the recreation hall, sitting on an upturned barrel, gazing at the guard tower, but obviously not seeing it. Kinch went and sat next to him, without speaking.

After a while, Baker sighed, and turned his head. "My sister lost the baby," he said quietly.

"Oh, man. I'm sorry, Baker." There wasn't much Kinch could say. They all dreaded getting bad news; it was one of the worst aspects of their lives here. There was so little any of them could do, stuck here on the other side of the world while their loved ones at home coped with whatever fate threw at them. Baker didn't talk much about his family; this was the first time Kinch had even heard he had a sister, let alone that she was expecting.

Baker's eyes were back on the guard tower. He looked as calm and unflappable as usual, but his hands, hidden in his pockets, were so tightly clenched they could be seen through the fabric.

"She'd been getting some pain, but she didn't want to say anything. Ruthie's like that, she hates making a fuss. Then she started bleeding. Joe - her husband - he took her to the nearest hospital. But they wouldn't let her in. Whites only."

He broke off. After a moment he went on. "So she had to go to the other hospital, and by the time she got there, it was too late to save the baby. They weren't sure for a couple of days if Ruth would make it."

Another silence, before he added, "It was a boy. They already have two little girls. Ruthie wrote a month ago, said she was sure it was a boy. Joe was real excited about it."

Kinch drew a deep breath. "At least your sister pulled through. I guess that's something. But losing a kid - that's real tough."

Baker didn't answer him.

"You want me to tell the other guys?" Kinch asked, after a minute or so of silence. "I know - it's not their business. But if they don't know, sooner or later someone's going to say the wrong thing. It's just better if they know."

"Whatever. As long as they don't talk about it." Baker's eyes narrowed. "They could have saved him, Kinch, if they'd just...but what else can we expect? _We don't treat niggers here_." His voice turned bitter. "Sometimes I start to wonder if we're fighting the right war."

"I don't think there's any doubt about that, Baker," replied Kinch. But just at that moment, he had a few reservations himself.

There was no carol singing in the barracks that night. Nobody was even talking much, and those who did, kept it quiet.

"Of all the times for that to happen," murmured Newkirk, keeping an eye on Baker while to all appearances immersed in a complicated solitaire game.

LeBeau shook his head. "You think there's a better time to get news like that? Take my word for it, Newkirk. Baker's sister has probably forgotten Christmas even exists. You can move that seven," he added, his eyes on the cards.

Newkirk ignored the hint. He'd just noticed Carter had gone to speak to Baker, who had withdrawn to his bunk and taken cover behind a book. "Don't do it, Carter," he said softly.

Baker looked up at Carter's approach, but there was no welcome in his eye. Carter spoke to him, diffidently; Baker gave a brief reply, and from Carter's response, whatever he'd said wasn't exactly friendly. A couple more words passed between them, before Carter retreated.

"Gosh, he's really mad," he muttered, taking a seat on the far side of the table.

"Who wouldn't be? It's a bloody shame, that's all." Newkirk scooped up the cards with an impatient sweep of his fingers, and began a new layout.

"Yeah, but..." Carter trailed off. "Something ought to be done," he said at last. "Boy, when I get home..."

"_Oui,_ when you get home," LeBeau replied sharply. "It doesn't help now." He glanced sideways at Baker, who had returned to the shelter of Zane Grey.

None of the other men dared approach him again before lights out. If Carter had fared so ill, the prospects for anyone else were very poor indeed.

Baker seemed to have recovered his customary imperturbable aspect by morning, but his barracks mates remained wary. Hogan kept one eye on him. He had held off the previous evening, knowing well how new grief must be allowed to find its level. But he had a feeling what he was seeing right now wasn't grief.

"Baker, can you come into my quarters for a moment?" he asked after assembly had been dismissed.

Baker didn't say a word as he followed Hogan into the only private space in the barracks. He stood in front of the window, and looked at the colonel, silent and hostile. Hogan wasn't often lost for the right thing to say, but in this case he had the feeling that the right words didn't exist. He fell back on convention.

"I'm sorry about your sister's loss, Baker," he said. "It's a tragedy."

"Yeah. Sure." Baker had tensed up as soon as Hogan spoke.

"It's also a terrible injustice," Hogan added. "No decent man would think otherwise. And I don't blame you for being angry."

"Is that right...sir?" Baker snapped out, then folded his lips together, and looked away.

"Yeah, that's right. But it's no good taking it out on the guys. Like it or not, we're all stuck here. We'll be living in each others' pockets for God knows how long, and we've got an important job to do. So don't say anything now that you might regret later."

His tone was less sharp than his words, but Baker didn't show any reaction, nor did he meet the colonel's eyes. Hogan could only hope he'd got through to him.

"I doubt it did any good," he confessed to Kinch after lunch, back in his quarters. "Right now he's too angry to see straight. He's not even grieving. And that's bad." He leaned against the window frame, gazing out across the compound. "How's it come to that, Kinch? How is it possible that in a civilised country, a woman in that kind of need gets turned away from a hospital, just because she's the wrong colour? How could they let an unborn baby die like that?"

"It happens, Colonel," said Kinch shortly. "You'd never come across it, but it happens."

Hogan's expression didn't change. There was nothing he could do about it now, but he filed it away, as something to start work on, after the war. When he spoke again, it was on another subject. "We'd better have another rehearsal before tonight. I think we need something extra special just at the end."

The snow began to fall early in the evening, just before the concert. Surprisingly, Hogan took this in good part. "The colder it gets outside, the more the guards will want to be inside. And that suits me just fine."

"Can't say I'm happy with it," muttered Newkirk. He would have to brave the weather, to work his magic on the padlock securing the door of the storehouse. LeBeau was also required, to distract the guard on duty with a little mulled wine and a few mince pies.

"It's lucky it was Schultz who drew the short straw," he remarked, regarding the little pastries with disfavour.

Baker had been left in peace all day, and he would have preferred to keep it that way. The last thing he wanted tonight was to go to a camp concert. But Hogan was adamant.

"Look, I know you don't feel up to it," he said seriously. "But you can't just sit in the barracks on your own, Baker. You'll go crazy thinking about it. Nobody's asking you to sing along. And we need everyone in there, so the guards think they can relax."

It was a poor argument, but perhaps Baker just didn't want to get into a debate. At any rate, he gave way, and half past six found him at the back of the hall, silent among the noise and laughter. The Kommandant was in the front row, beaming benevolently on this harmless activity on the part of the prisoners. It was touching, really; Hogan almost felt guilty.

He stepped in front of the makeshift curtain, to be greeted by a raucous, good-natured round of applause from the audience. "Thanks, guys," he said. "And thanks for coming all the way out here tonight." An ironic cheer greeted that; he held up his hands for silence. "Okay, settle down. Now, we hope you'll get into the spirit, and sing along. But it's optional."

He nodded towards the man in charge of the curtain, and things got under way with a relentlessly jolly rendition of _Jingle Bells_.

With intent, the first few numbers had been chosen to put everyone into good spirits, and get the Krauts relaxed. They'd even thrown in _Tannenbaum_, just to help things along. So by the time the trio - Carter, Olsen and Kinch - took centre stage, nobody was going to notice that LeBeau and Newkirk had slipped out to attend to the backstage part of the festivities.

Hogan kept watch on Klink, but the Kommandant was well into the spirit of the season. And really, that trio was sounding pretty good; it wasn't surprising Klink was enjoying it. Assured that all was well there, Hogan turned his attention towards Baker. It could have been imagination, but he couldn't help feeling that some of the tension had relaxed.

Newkirk and LeBeau hadn't returned before the trio finished, but some members of the audience had been primed for the emergency, and called for an encore. And they got one; _While Shepherds Watched_, sung extremely slowly. And that gave the absentees just enough time to get back and join in _Good King Wenceslas_, sung way too fast.

From Newkirk's air of satisfaction, Hogan guessed it had been a highly successful foraging venture. There was only one more piece of business that had to be transacted tonight; he wasn't sure it would go as well, but he hoped it would be a start. He stepped onto the stage again.

"This next carol is pretty special to some of us," he said. "Please join in, if you know it, and I'm sure you all do." He looked across the heads of the audience, to the shadows where Baker was.

There was a brief silence, before the gentlest of all Christmas carols began; a cradle song for a baby boy, half a world away, whose long dreaming was never to end.

_Away in a manger, no crib for a bed,  
__The little Lord Jesus laid down his sweet head.  
__The stars in the bright sky looked down where he lay,  
__The little Lord Jesus, asleep on the hay._

Gradually other voices joined in, some in harmony, some an octave lower, a few falling between the cracks. By the last verse nearly every man present was singing, although so softly that it scarcely seemed real. Hogan, still watching, was relieved to see that Baker had relaxed at last. There was no external sign; that wasn't his way, especially not in public. But Hogan could tell that the anger had at last given way, and allowed the grief to surface.

_Bless all the dear children in Thy tender care,  
__And fit us for heaven, to live with Thee there._

Silence fell over the hall. Hogan let it lie for a few moments before announcing the final number.

In spite of Carter's lack of enthusiasm for figgy pudding, there was never any doubt of which carol they'd finish with, and even the guards joined in with the chorus. They needed a good rousing, after the brief moment of seriousness; such a racket had not been heard within Stalag 13 since the last time the prisoners rioted. And so the Christmas carol concert finished with the same level of good cheer as it had started. And if he didn't join in, if his heart was too sore, and his pain too fresh, Baker knew at least that his pals were with him in spirit.

The show came at last to a rowdy conclusion after several increasingly disorderly encores, and the audience was persuaded with difficulty to call it a night.

"You okay now, Baker?" The question came from Carter, as they straggled back to the barracks; hesitantly, remembering the last time he'd asked.

"Sure," said Baker, his customary equanimity back in place. "I'm fine, Carter." He wasn't; Hogan, bringing up the rear, knew he wasn't. But he was on the way.

"Thanks, Colonel," he added quietly, glancing over his shoulder.

The injustice remained; in time, it would be addressed, by more than just the handful of men here. But that was for later. For now, there was the immediate grief; and if it hadn't been dismissed, for a little while it would be easier to bear. And if there would be no joy for Baker this Christmas, there would be some comfort. He was among friends.

None of them would ever know Ruthie's little son; but every one of them would remember him.

* * *

_Away In A Manger_: The Kirkpatrick version - though Murray's is extremely beautiful and would work just as well.


End file.
